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to Spaghetti Westerns at the Crossroads
William Grady
through the Lee Van Cleef-like bounty hunter featured in Morris and
Goscinny’s bande dessinée (French comic) Lucky Luke: The Bounty
Hunter (1972).
Drawing upon this relationship, this chapter will take a similar
approach to Frayling, who mediates between comic book influences
upon the Spaghetti Western and the later reciprocal impact of these
Westerns upon the comic book. It will open by demystifying some of
the tacit references to the comic-like qualities of the Italian Westerns.
This will provide context for the chapter’s exploration of the impact of
these films upon the Western comic book, primarily achieved through
a case study of the bande dessinée series, Blueberry (1963–2005), by
Jean-Michel Charlier and Jean Giraud. In a collection that looks to
map the relocation and appropriation of the Spaghetti Western, this
chapter will reinterpret these Italian productions through the comic
book. It will elaborate upon the Spaghetti Western as a visual and the-
matic language that can be understood in relation to the comic book.
Moreover, when considering how this language is replicated through
the comics medium, the chapter will suggest that there is a form of
transcultural adaptation at play, with certain non-Italian comics having
reappropriated the anarchic spirit of these films to speak to a different
nation’s socio-political milieu.
on the content of his films too. Indeed, the taciturn hero who drags a
coffin behind him in Django (1966) was an idea taken from a comic
book that Corbucci had picked up from a newsstand in Rome.5 How-
ever, this unusual comic book gunslinger can be read as an extension
of Corbucci’s weird vision of the Old West, as the director often pro-
nounced a taste for bizarre elements in his films. For instance, Django
foregrounded a type of hyperbolic violence, seen as the comic-book-
inspired hero pulls out a Gatling Gun from the coffin he drags around,
wiping out a full army platoon, all the while remaining unscathed.
Likewise, Corbucci’s use of parody was taken to extremes, with West-
ern clichés like the taciturn gunslinger becoming a mute with a scarred
neck in The Great Silence (Il grande Silenzio, Sergio Corbucci, 1968).
The eccentric dark humour and the exaggerated violence that mark
Corbucci’s work, and, more broadly, other Spaghetti Westerns are
often bound to comic book analogy (see the aforementioned quota-
tions from Fisher, Frayling and Haustrate). The use of ‘comic book’
as a descriptive in such cases can be understood as a throwaway ref-
erence to the simplicity of the comics form. Indeed, the American
newspaper strips of the nineteenth century were known for their
caricature/cartoon style, slapstick humour, and marginally intelligible
pidgin English, which appealed to an emerging literate lower class.
From this, the comics form would grow to become inherently sub-
versive and hyperbolic as the narrative form developed in the twen-
tieth century.6 While the form’s history was marked by periods of
decline and renewed innovation (especially in the final quarter of the
twentieth century through adult underground comix and the birth of
the graphic novel), comics until the late 1960s were produced almost
exclusively for children.7 The comics’ ‘innocuousness, naivety and
juvenility’, Sabin generalises, are ‘characteristics that most people
associate with them today’ (Sabin 2010: 23). Therefore, critics’ use
of the term ‘comic’ to describe elements of the Spaghetti Western may
draw upon such characteristics – a reference to the form’s tendency
to deal with hyperbolic violence and audacious humour on a level
of childlike simplicity, often drained of moral complexity. However,
drawing such comic book analogies with instances of absurdity that
mark the Spaghetti Western does not grasp at the core of a more inter-
esting connection the Italian Western bears with the comic.
At a basic level of comparison, this connection can be read through
the distinction between Hollywood’s West and the West of the comic
book and the Spaghetti Western. As Lusted suggests, Hollywood’s
‘popular representation of the West is The West to most people’ (Lusted
2003: 9). Indeed, while the Western is a fictional landscape of stories
sequences, from the duel in For a Few Dollars More (Per qualche dollaro
in più, 1965) in which Mortimer is able to shoot Manco’s hat from his
head from a long distance, to Cheyenne comically luring a villain to his
death by shooting at him through his own boot which he lowers from
above the train window in Once Upon a Time in the West (C’era una
volta il West, 1968). Moreover, the various ‘Trinity’ Westerns (which
starred Terence Hill and Bud Spencer) heavily foregrounded the eccen-
tric humour that the Spaghetti Westerns were known for. For instance,
in Trinity Is Still My Name (Continuavano a chiamarlo Trinità, Enzo
Barboni, 1971), the barroom standoff scene descends into a humorous
slapping match between Trinity and his foe. However, this unusual vision
of the American West was nothing new, and long before the Spaghetti
Western the comic book had already detailed its own peculiar vision of
the Old Frontier.
Maurice Horn argues that ‘if the medium is the message, then the
message of the comics, with their flouting of the rules of traditional art
and of civilized language, can only be subversion’ (Horn 1976: 50).
Indeed, in the hands of the comic book creator, the Western became
a site of surreal and anarchic possibilities. As early as the 1930s, the
comic strip vehemently parodied the genre’s reliance on racial stereo-
types. Strips like Little Joe (Ed Leffingwell, 1933–72), often humor-
ously characterised the archetypal white cowboy as moronic next to
the cunning Native American, who often outwitted these would-be
exploiters on each encounter. These instances of Western parody and
satire could be located in later strips like Stan Lynde’s Rick O’Shay
(1958–81), which continued this humorous tradition with characters
like the banker, Mort Gage, and a child named Quyat Burp (an obvi-
ous play on Frontier hero Wyatt Earp). Yet the illustrated nature of
the comic opened up the form to eccentricity, allowing for the explo-
ration of wacky possibilities unexplored in other forms of the genre.
For instance, T. K. Ryan’s irreverent anti-Western strip, Tumbleweeds
(1965–2007), located the iconoclastic fervour surrounding the genre
in the 1960s through burlesque humour and a caricatured Old West,
whereas Magazine Enterprises’ Ghost Rider (Dick Ayers, 1950–4) pro-
vided supernatural visions of the Frontier through the adventures of a
phantom gunslinger. Meanwhile, Charlton Comics extended this use of
unlikely protagonists with Black Fury (1955–6), which narrated adven-
tures in the Old West from the perspective of a horse.
Such subversions to the generic space may draw upon Verano’s sug-
gestion that the comic book inhabits the world of the ‘fictional signifier’,
which can offer hyperbolic possibilities unfixed from our own reality
(Verano 2006: 326). However, such subversions may also be read in
tandem with Kitses’ ‘making strange’. This may take away from the
powerful vision of the West, his work can be likened to the cinematic
idealisation of the Frontier landscape found in Hollywood Westerns.
For example, John Ford’s magnificent desert scenes, which often saw
stagecoaches or galloping horses framed against the immense buttes of
Monument Valley, provided a phantasmagorical image of America’s
mythic past. Giraud can be seen directly referencing this powerful
landscape at certain points in the first Blueberry album, Fort Navajo
(1965). Here, similar buttes from Monument Valley can be found in
the background of desert sequences (see for instance Charlier and
Giraud 1965: 6).
Despite referents to its Hollywood counterpart, the Blueberry series
also encapsulated an emerging cultural resistance in France and offered
a commentary on contemporary issues. One case in point could be
the uncomfortable retelling of Manifest Destiny in Blueberry, a bleak
depiction of American imperialism culturally removed, yet read in tan-
dem with, France’s recent colonial past.13 Blueberry himself is another
marker of this resistant inclination, a character who is visually mod-
elled upon the Nouvelle Vague anti-hero Jean-Paul Belmondo. His
character in films like Breathless (À bout de souffle, Jean-Luc Godard,
1960) came to represent the modern loner paradigm, and the anarchist
(Nochimson 2010: 54). His childlike emulation of Humphrey Bogart’s
performance through his character in the film can be read as a critique
upon the hollow façade of Hollywood cinema through these empty
gestures. This visual mockery of American icons and his anarchic dis-
position can also be discerned through Blueberry. He is a character who
does not represent the classic Western hero, but is instead an undisci-
plined and cynical soldier who hates authority. When we are first intro-
duced to the character in the opening pages of Fort Navajo, we find
him cheating at a gambling table (Charlier and Giraud 1965: 1–3). This
conflation of American archetypes with an emerging resistant French
culture was a tendency that would heighten later into the 1960s.
The social and political upheavals that came about surrounding the
riots of May 1968 had a profound impact upon French culture.14 This
insurrection Caute describes as generating ‘radical chic’ (Caute 1988:
227). In cinema, this is apparent in the work of Jean-Luc Godard, who
broke with the classic rules of filmmaking in favour of revolutionary
and propagandist collages in his films. In the case of bande dessinée, in
the aftermath of 1968 the medium became more socially and politically
subversive, pushing the boundaries of subject matter. The medium was
vital in providing alternatives to the mainstream and formed the first
main channel of youth protest in late 1960s France (Baetens and Surdi-
acourt 2013: 356). Artists nurtured earlier in Pilote magazine now felt
that the severe editorial style was placing a restraint upon work, and
a rebellion ensued with emergent counter-culture publications. Bande
dessinée heroes like Hergé’s Tintin, seen shooting up with heroin in one
feature, were treated with derision in these comics (see Fluide Glacial
#21, 1978). Indeed, adult themes were now being foregrounded in the
pages of bande dessinée, mostly achieved through overt sexual con-
tent and violent gory sequences. In the case of Blueberry, this context
can be read through the character’s Belmondo looks, which began to
fade and become more rough-hewn. More broadly, the series would
shed its classic Hollywood Western façade, heading south of the border
and into Spaghetti Western-tinged adventure. In an interview, Giraud
recounts: ‘Watching Leone’s movies gave me a big visual shock, and
totally impacted my own vision of the American West’ (Charlier and
Giraud 1991: dust jacket). Indeed, in the aftermath of 1968, Giraud’s
vision of the West began to change, becoming more violent and surreal.
‘Apaches? Bandits?’, Blueberry questions as he hears distant gunshots
while making his patrol through the desert, soon realising: ‘Mexicans!
But what the hell . . .’ (Charlier and Giraud 1989).15 This encounter with
the Mexican army occurs in the opening pages of Chihuahua Pearl (Char-
lier and Giraud 1973): an album which would begin the longest cycle of
the series. It tells the fictional tale of Confederate General Edmund Kirby
Smith, who fled to Mexico after the Civil War. Smith is said to have hid-
den Confederate gold somewhere in Mexico, and Blueberry is hired to
track down this bounty. The titular hero still plays out his French anar-
chic tendencies, falling from grace with the American authorities in this
cycle. He becomes a fugitive accused of the attempted assassination of
President Ulysses S. Grant, and repeatedly attempts to clear his name.
More significant is how the series’ traditional Western bearings began
to be swept aside. The thriving prairies and the focus on the Native
American, which can be summarised through Figure 10.3, began to be
replaced by a more arid and surreal tone. Figure 10.4 visually hints at
this new tone, articulated through the establishing of markers of setting,
including barren deserts, cemeteries, and desecrated churches. Even
the clashing colour definition in which this extract (and the title more
broadly) is painted – shades of yellows and oranges, alongside purples
and blues – was indicative of a more bizarre detour for the series. These
iconographic inclusions may draw upon the Spaghetti Western vision,
but narrative clues work in unison to aid this atmosphere. The series’
overt disillusionment with how the West was won was sidelined with
a quest for gold in Mexico. This is heightened further through Smith’s
gold being buried in an unmarked grave, in an abandoned ghost town –
a clear nod to Leone’s The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
Sheriff asks the terribly burned assassin, whose face is bloody and blis-
tered beyond recognition. ‘Angel–Angel F–Face!’ he replies (Charlier
and Giraud 1990).
Beyond the dark humour and violence that enriched these films, the
other distinct aspect of the Spaghetti Western was the garish and sur-
real tone they presented. Most of these films were shot in Spain, allow-
ing desert settings to appear as disturbing alien terrains for the taciturn
heroes and the bizarre villains to inhabit. Leone provided disorienting
contrasts in his cinematography through glacial set pieces, jarring close-
ups, and vast panoramas of the desolate landscape. Ennio Morricone’s
soundtrack worked in unison, applying sonically bizarre effects to the
often loud and saturating music, creating an analogy with the violent
action, or complementing the strange dreamlike sequences. To evidence
this surreal feel to Leone’s cinematic language, the Baxter massacre
scene from his A Fistful of Dollars (Per un pugno di dollari, 1964)
is a useful example. The close-ups of the sweating and scarred faces
of the Rojos are quickly cut with images of their many victims being
shot to death. The fire from the burning Baxter residence dramatically
lights the faces of these murderers, and their maniacal laughter haunts
the scene. The quick to and fro between images of death and mania-
cal faces makes for a disorienting and nightmarish vision of murder.
Such haunting scenes are balanced with Leone’s dreamlike sequences.
The aforementioned scene from For a Few Dollars More, where we see
Indio transported to a past memory of rape and murder, showcases a
variety of camera effects, a jarring soundtrack, and the use of colour to
create a discomforting set piece.
This combination of effects from the film language illustrates the
surreal tone that marked the Spaghetti Western. However, attempting
to extrapolate this into the Blueberry series may seem difficult con-
sidering how facets of this atmosphere, such as the sonically bizarre
soundtrack, would be lost through the printed comics medium. Instead,
this language can be read through other elements of comics form such as
colour. In the early albums of the Blueberry series, Giraud honed a nat-
uralistic palette in keeping with this traditional vision of the Old West.
However, in the surrounding milieu of 1968, Giraud began experiment-
ing with subjective colours, rejecting the former naturalistic approach.
For instance, scenes of heavy dialogue can see characters in one panel
marked in natural tones of colour, only to be painted in bright pastel
colours in a following panel. This psychedelic quality marked not only
characters, but the scenery also. For example, in Ballade pour un cer-
cueil, bizarre-shaped boulders are seen in pinks and blues, and there are
rivers of red and yellow, alongside instances where prairies and brush
have been rendered in shades of blue. This bizarre use of tonal shades
also helped define time and place, from desert landscapes set in blazing
oranges and yellows to define the perishing heat of the midday sun to
nighttime sequences in dreamlike purples.
This bizarre use of colour is certainly medium-specific, and beyond
the use of red to mark the past memories of murder in the Spaghetti
Western it was not commonplace in Western films. However, the hal-
lucinatory effect that the colour provides in the comic can be bound to
some sequences in the Spaghetti Western. For instance, in Leone’s The
Good, the Bad and the Ugly, Eastwood’s character, ‘Blondie’, is sub-
jected to cruel torture, held captive and dragged through the desert by
Tuco. Leone uses fades between each shot, not only to suggest a sense
of time unfolding, but also to create a surreal and delirious tone, delin-
eating the harsh and exhausting heat of the desert. Leone shoots the
desert not to appear like the American West, but like a nightmarish ter-
rain, while Tuco’s pink parasol that decorates some shots adds a bizarre
twist to this long torture scene. Figure 10.5 is taken from the album
Le hors-la-loi (Charlier and Giraud 1974b), and a scene where the US
Army has imprisoned Blueberry. In a similar manner to ‘Blondie’, Blue-
berry has been forced to march in the blazing heat of the desert by his
captors. Giraud’s artwork offers a similar hallucinatory effect to the
scene from Leone’s film, but achieved through specifics of form. Painted
in tones of orange and yellow, the extract emphasises the desert heat.
Giraud replaces the traditional use of panels, and instead each instance
in the sequence of Blueberry’s torture is pieced together through smoky
waves from the desert’s dust clouds. This delirious effect works in uni-
son with Blueberry’s thought bubbles, which start out as a tangible
sentence indicating his plan to kill Kelly (the Commanding Officer who
has ordered this cruel torture), but end in ‘W . . . water kill’ as the char-
acter breaks under the sun. This effect is intensified by the two ortho-
dox square panels in the top right corner, which depict Commander
Kelly watching Blueberry’s torture from the safety of the indoors (and
painted in cool shades of blue). This juxtaposition of the hallucina-
tory desert panel, broken up through smoky waves, and the more rigid
panels of the indoor scene suggests a separation between reality and
Giraud’s surreal and nightmarish desert.
In an interview regarding the Western, Giraud dramatically asserted
that ‘Leone changed everything’ (Thompson 1987: 93). Indeed, Leone
and his fellow directors of the Spaghetti Western revised the genre
for the cinematic frontier. However, in a similar manner, it could be
suggested that Charlier and Giraud’s Blueberry was making dramatic
revisions to the genre in comics form. While this may certainly be
conclusion
Through the broad overview that this chapter has provided, it is clear
to see the vital interplay between the comics form and the Spaghetti
Western that has emerged. Detailing a number of perspectives in
which comic book influences can be read through these films – from
informing visual style, to co-inhabiting a similar bizarre Old Western
space – makes it apparent that the comic book has played a greater
role within the Spaghetti Western than the one scholars and crit-
ics have fleetingly referred to in the past. Furthermore, inclusion of
the Spaghetti Western’s cinematic language into later Western comic
books highlights the ongoing iterative nature of cultural develop-
ments. The comics form is an eminently suitable visual narrative form
with which to replicate the cinematic language in which the Italian
Western spoke. Moreover, as the case study of Blueberry elaborated,
the Spaghetti Western can arguably be framed as an accessible, visual
and thematic language that can be repurposed to respond to differ-
ent cultural dynamics, and to social and political discord in other
countries.
notes
1. The Western in many ways defined the nation in the years before the 1960s. The
haunting schemas of the myth of the West were able to trigger a yearning for the
idealised past lodged deep in the American psyche. In politics, the term ‘Frontier’
marked John F. Kennedy’s acceptance speech in 1960, whereas the term ‘cowboy
diplomacy’ could be used to understand the presidency of Theodore Roosevelt.
In advertising, the Western became a powerful image to sell to America through
idealised images of a mythic past – the Marlboro Man (the smoking cowboy)
is indicative of this. Most significant, however, was how political discourse and
ideology could be grafted onto commanding visions of the Old West in various
popular narrative forms. For instance, the film Stagecoach (John Ford, 1939) used
the powerful vistas of Monument Valley to narrate the mythic narrative of regen-
eration through the challenge of the wilderness, whilst effecting a pro-interven-
tionist position in the run-up to World War II. Such mythic potential highlighted a
precedent for the Western of popular culture, and how it could speak to American
hopes and fears.
2. In terms of the number of Western films being produced, Table 1 in Buscombe’s The
BFI Companion to the Western indicates the dwindling production figures of the
genre into the 1960s and 1970s (1990: 426). Slotkin’s Gunfighter Nation (1998),
Coyne’s The Crowded Prairie (1998) and Corkin’s Cowboys as Cold Warriors
(2004) are just some examples among many cultural histories of the Hollywood
Western, exploring how the genre’s narrative conflicts and thematic tensions cor-
responded with issues in twentieth-century US society – from the idealised Western
of the post-war years to the anti-Westerns and subsequent waning of the genre in
the 1960s.
3. In etymological terms, ‘comic’ grew out of the comical drawings and amusing
short essays and droll verse offered in Life, Puck, and Judge – dubbed ‘comic
weeklies’ (Harvey 2009: 36). While the medium developed in both form and
content from out of this precursory material, the term ‘comic’ to describe the
medium remains.
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